Phoenix
by Eleora
Summary: Two hundred years have passed since the Last Battle, and an era of darkness has settled upon the world, both wizard and muggle alike. Under the tyranous reign of Lord Voldemort, hope was but a distant memoryuntil another child of prophecy was born.
1. Prologue

Prologue

A lone star twinkled in the darkness of the night sky. It was a thing of beauty, the very essence of all that had been lost to Fallen Earth and her inhabitants. Bravely it shone above the ruin of muggle London, offering a glimmer of hope in a world so tainted by evil.

For the world was indeed tainted by evil. Nature itself was but a twisted shadow of its former glory. No more was the golden disk of light that had caressed so many summer days; no longer did those glorious rays bathe the world in joy. This sun was wrong, twisted, and evil: a sickening shade of blood-red in the hazy, pewter-gray sky. Nothing had been spared from the contamination, as the twisted and bent trees, the withered grass, the strangely parched rivers would all testify. Everything had been tainted.

The nights were different now as well--colder, longer, reeking of evil, haunted by the tortured whispers of those long gone--the night was filled with a deeper darkness than before, and it was a darkness that seemed unnaturally alive. Those who dared venture out into the night were quickly swallowed by the shadows.

An era of darkness had settled upon the world; both wizard and muggle alike.

Two-hundred years had passed since the Last Battle, the battle that had decided the fate of mankind. Two hundred years since the world had shuddered under the weight of their beloved Champion's death. And in that moment, all hope of salvation was brutally torn apart as the broken body of a nineteen-year-old boy crumpled to the ground, emerald eyes closing for the last time.

For two centuries the world had toiled and groaned under the cruel, terrifying reign of the immortal Lord Voldemort. And as the years past, as the taint of Lord Voldemort's evil spread, the world sped ever faster towards its ultimate destruction.

Only scant factions remained opposed to him; small pockets of resistance scattered throughout his mighty Empire. The death of Harry Potter had devastated all worlds alike as the arm of Voldemort spread until even the muggle world fell under his heinous rule--the same muggle world which had caused so much pain, so very long ago, to a young boy named Tom Riddle.

With the devastating defeat of the Chosen One of the Light, the gateway to long-lasting—if not eternal—life had been opened to Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord rewarded those whom he saw fit with the Elixir of Life and watched with satisfaction as the community of those loyal to him grew. It was upon the completion of this peculiar potion, he set loose his wrath against the world that had rejected him so long ago.

Muggle-killing rampages grew and intensified as the full force of Lord Voldemort's hatred poured down upon the non-magical population. The muggles were hunted as sport, tortured to death, burned at the stake in ways cruelly reminiscent of muggle witch-hunting.

It was at this point in time that a curious trait of nature came into play. As more magic was used with increasingly casual regard against muggles, a peculiar mutation took place in a select few, which caused an immunity to most magic as a whole.

At first this tiny beacon of light brought hope into the hearts of the muggles, for who had not heard of Darwin's "survival of the fittest"? Perhaps in those few, some hope for the survival of the muggle world could be placed. Into these Select few, perhaps all the knowledge and dreams and love of the non-magical could be preserved and saved for a better, brighter day.

But as in all things, nature had a way to balance this anomaly. To those who underwent this change, even a common cold was deadly. The very mutation which had allowed the Select to be impervious to magic, had in fact mutated their immune system to the point where magic and all its components were recognized as a pathogenic infection and immediately disposed of, while ordinary viruses and bacteria were no longer a threat.

It was because of this that most of the Select died before adulthood—and most often in the most horrible manner. But in a world gone mad, they held the hopes and dreams of all muggle-kind.

For years, the Select were the deepest secret of muggle-kind. Upon discovery, they were hidden away, out of the reach of Lord Voldemort, where they lived their short, pain-filled lives as best as they could, biding their time.

Their fellow muggles died to protect them, spilling their lifeblood to keep the Select a secret—and still the Select did nothing, until that day.

Exactly two-hundred years after the death of The-Boy-Who-Lived, another child-of-prophecy was born. The son of two Selects, his birth heralded the approach of a new era, an era of justice and peace.

For now, the muggles would still groan under the torturous rule of Lord Voldemort, but the time to fight would soon come. Hope stirred in the hearts of all, as the first awakening of a pale, spring day.

_From the ashes of despair, hope springs anew_.


	2. Til we've grown older

A cold, harsh wind rushed in from the north. Winding swiftly through the forbidding streets of London, it wailed with malevolent glee. With carelessness born of contempt, it knocked signs and shutters alike and rattled against doors. Tonight was a night for mischief. Nothing stood in its path—the world quivered before it in silent fear of the night.

A piercing howl split the air—and in their homes the muggles trembled for fear of the full moon. While a permanent haze of sickly-green cloud covered the moon, there was no mistaking the shape. Tonight was a night for mischief—yet another round of muggle-hunting would be played, with the losers invariably the muggles.

Ever since the start of Voldemort's reign, werewolves were given full rights to do as they wished to the muggles. Indeed, every full moon the lycanthropes would be carefully herded to muggle towns for sport. Many wizards believed it a favor when a muggle was turned into a werewolf—after all; they then became magical and had full, legal rights as a citizen of Voldemort's empire.

Becoming a werewolf was one of the lesser evils of the full moon. It was far more preferable to the slow, torturous death of the victims chosen to satisfy the wolves hunger. It was also far better than the sufferings of muggles sentenced to the Arena.

With Voldemort's reign a long-forbidden form of entertainment was resurrected: the Arena. It delighted the new, bloodthirsty society to watch muggles battle to the death in the Gladiator Arena. And what terrible deaths they were as the gladiators were forced to fight against magical creatures and even the occasional wizard.

The full moon was considered especially entertaining as on the particular night of the full moon, werewolves volunteered themselves to the Arena to fight against the "muggle filth." It was mindless slaughter, and the crowd loved it.

Another howl ripped through the icy air, closer. The massacre would begin, soon. Muggles huddled in dank basements; some shifting uneasily, some praying earnestly. Others attempted to escape their homes, weeping tears of helplessness and terror when they realized they were trapped—spelled inside their homes. It was only a matter of time before they too, would join the many victims of Voldemort.

Miles away, hidden deep in catacombs warded—by sympathetic wizard-kind—against magical discovery, a small boy slumped against the earthen wall. Golden eyes closed, and a tear slipped out from stubby lashes. He had always disliked full moons, but this night was the first time he truly hated them. Before, a full moon meant no escapes from muggle villages. Now he knew the true horror that befell the non-magical on nights like this.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right that he should remain here—safe and protected—while others faced terrors beyond belief with no hope of survival. He was a Select, wasn't he? Couldn't he just step out and stop the magic—the hurt—from happening?

"Chance."

He looked up and saw Adon, one of the Guardians of the catacombs. Like himself, Adon was a non-magical, but Adon was not a Select. Chance sniffed, wrapping skinny arms around equally thin legs. He was a Select, and therefore kept in perfect health—but that was the best that could be managed. Food was scarce, and he knew oftentimes a Guardian or Health-bringer gave his own ration so that Chance might remain fit.

"Chance," the dark-haired Guardian repeated, a note of worry in his voice.

"I can't help them." His voice was a hoarse whisper, old and tinged with pain—so out of place, coming from a child. "I can't stop their hurt."

Adon shifted uneasily. The Guardians had always sought to keep their distance from Chance, fearing the spread of germs and harmful substance that could so easily overcome his frail immune system. The boy was shielded from magic yes, but the shielding took away from his natural defenses against common pathogens.

Empathy won out over logic though, and the grim-eyed Guardian quickly strode across the room to kneel beside the boy. He hesitated, not sure what to say, but Chance spoke again.

"If I was out there, I could stop it. I could make the bad-magic go away." He turned solemn, golden eyes towards the man kneeling at his side. "It wouldn't hurt me at all and it'd help the others."

Adon smiled—a sad, pain-filled smile that spoke of burdens beyond compare. "You are only one boy, and a very small one at that." While he hated to aid Chance's feeling of helplessness, it was necessary.

"Maybe I could stop the bad-magic from hurting another very small boy." His eyes were hopeful, reflecting all the innocence of a 7-year old. "Maybe if they scrunched down, I could help two of them."

"If you helped them now, when you're small, you wouldn't be able to help them when you're big."

"But they hurt now! What if they aren't there when I'm big? What if I can't help them?"

"Chance," Adon began hesitantly, "if you helped them now, they would be safe—but you would be gone, and when they hurt later, you wouldn't be there to help them."

Golden eyes stared at him, unblinking.

"Yes, they hurt right now. Yes, if you went out right now, you could help one or two very small boys—but in the end, you would hurt them even more. They need you to be big—those two boys need you to help them when you're older—then they'll be safe. Wait, Chance—your time will come." He paused, and then muttered to himself. "Sooner than you expect, no doubt."

The raven-haired boy let out a sigh, sounding far older than his age. "Promise?"

"Promise."

Far away in London, another howl shook the night as the full moon festivities went on. Amid the wreckage of homes and bodies, no one noticed the broken bodies of two very small, little boys.


	3. A burden bestowed

Chapter Two:  
A Burden Bestowed

Panting breaths. The smell of dirt. Dank, musty air. The sharp sting of sweat. The harsh scrape of stone against his palm.

The sensations assaulted him, hitting one by one and fading away only to be replaced by yet another. But there was one feeling that never left. One feeling that clung to him with all the ferocity of a lion. _Fear_.

Here, in the dark, damp caves beneath his home, Chance was utterly alone—alone in tunnels far beneath the surface of the earth, with over a hundred tons of rock and dirt separating him from the rest of humanity. And he was afraid. Afraid of the silence, afraid of the pain from numerous cuts across his palms—but most of all, he was afraid of the dark.

He _hated_ the dark. Dark was evil. It was under the cover—the protections—of darkness that the most heinous deeds of the Dark Lord were performed. Blood rituals, sacrificial ceremonies—these were among the least horrifying of the Dark Lord's deeds. And while it was not the darkness itself that performed such monstrous acts, it tolerated them—no, delighted in them. The darkness was not to be trusted.

Chance crouched low to the dirt floor of the tunnel, golden eyes gleaming like a cat, despite the dark that surrounded him. He was tense—incredibly so—with his small but sinewy muscles locked and rigid. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened his already-soaked tunic. He strained his ears, hoping against hope that he had imagined the faint sound of footfalls behind him. But just in case, he tightened his grip on the sharp rock clasped in his left hand as his eyes hardened in determination.

Here, in the bowels of the earth, he was alone and without anyone to depend on. If he was to get out safely, it would be entirely up to him. There was no one here to protect him, no one to get him out of this mess.

The thought was both frightening and exhilarating.

Seconds passed then minutes, as Chance slowly allowed himself to relax and continue down the tunnel. Fear still plagued the boy, threatening to overcome him, but was that not what he had come here for? Out of a desire to face his fears and "overcome" them like a heroic warrior of old?

Stupid of him, really, now that he actually stopped to think about it. No one knew where he was, they only had his word that he would not venture outside the catacombs. Of course, none of them had known the Tunnels existed, either.

A hot breeze ruffled his hair as he frowned to himself in thought. If he had magic, he could send a message to them. Then again, if he had magic he would have been discovered by the agents of the Dark Lord and been enslaved by now. While muggles were too filthy to be used for anything except entertainment and food purposes, muggle-borns were elevated to the rank of slave. Supposedly, it was an honor.

Something clicked at that moment, something he hadn't realized earlier snapped into place. Chance froze, jerking suddenly to a halt as every muscle in his lithe body tensed.

There was no wind in the Tunnels.

Which meant it wasn't a breeze ruffling his hair at the moment.

Terror rose up within him, clouding his senses. He was trapped, caught as neatly as a mouse in a trap. He berated himself for his stupidity in coming down here by himself. He had been lured inside this maze by mere mention of the heroic deeds of Elias Creevey, Resistance-leader extraordinaire. But now was not the time to be angry at himself.

The hot breeze picked up, whipping furiously through the tunnel, and Chance began to feel somewhat faint from the heat. Shaking his head against the abrupt dizziness, Chance felt his heart leap with terror as the sound of voices drifted towards him on the wind. Indistinguishable at first, they gradually resolved themselves into words—no, one word, a word that sent a cold tingle of dread through the thirteen-year-old.

"_Harry."_ The word was a chant, repeating over and over again: high voices and low, with all manner of accents and annunciation, but all saying the same thing. _"Harry_." And somehow, through it all he felt a whirl of emotions that were not quite his own, but at the same time were. Regret mixed with fear and pain and anguish swirled about him and inside of him, almost seeming to pulse with every word that reached his ear. _"Harry_."

And then a sharp, exasperated voice sounded which banished the whispers, "Harry!" Chance blinked, his eyes watering from the dust whirling about and squinted at the slight figure of a girl running through the tunnels towards him. She seemed almost wispy and transparent as she drew closer, with ragged robes and a dirty face, but her eyes were hard and spoke of pain and suffering. Then, he heard another voice answering the girl, and to his utmost astonishment, Chance realized it was himself speaking.

"It's alright Hermione. I'm alright. Just a bit dizzy is all." At his words, the voices began to come back, whispering his name on the breeze—or perhaps it was just the memory of them.

"Well we've got to keep moving, we don't know when—" she broke off suddenly and cocked her head to the side as though listening to something. Eyes widening with something akin to terror, she turned towards Chance and lifted a grimy finger towards her lips and motioned for him to run. But now Chance could hear whatever it was that had alerted her, and the sound of it froze him with terror.

The girl was mouthing the words "run, Harry" with increasing desperation as tears started to trickle down her face. Chance reached out to touch her shoulder, offer assurance when abruptly the world tilted to the side. He stumbled and felt his arm scrape hard against a rocky outcropping and stared in dumb astonishment at the blood seeping from his arm. He glanced up at the girl and winced at the look on her face. But before she could do anything, the dizziness overcame him once more. Colours swirled about him in a hazy dance of light as voices began whispering once more. _"Harry,"_ the ghostly echo seemed to physically envelope his frame and he realized that despite the heat of the tunnel, he was shivering uncontrollably.

Then the voices and colours were gone, and with them the wind and the girl Hermione and whatever terror lurked around the corner. It was just Chance, slumped against a cold, damp wall with only a memory and a small, jagged cut on his arm.

His vision began to cloud--not with the colours again, but with black spots that tumbled and capered about as they grew larger and covered more of his sight. Dimly through it all, he heard the sound of someone calling, and saw the vague outline of someone running.

"Chance!"

Chance's eyes closed as a small smile broke across his face--Chance, not Harry. He was home again.

"How is he?" spoken quietly, gravely. Chance wrinkled his nose. Why was everything so dark?

"Better, but I'm afraid he took quite a hit. His immune system has deteriorated to an alarming degree. Adon, I'm very certain that if you had not found him when you did, he would not even be alive." Was he still in the tunnels? But why would Health-bringer Jameson and Adon be down here with him? And why was he lying down?

"Is he still fevered?"

"Slightly. But as you know, even the smallest infection is a danger to him. He still might not make it. Were he any other child, I would say he would be up and about tomorrow. Were he any other select, I would say he would be dead by tomorrow. However, Chance is neither an ordinary child nor an ordinary Select. Its almost impossible to know for sure whether he will recover."

"Ah." Adon paused, seeming to hesitate, "And what of the cut? You said it was like nothing you had ever seen before."

"It isn't—I've never even heard of something like this happening before. Adon, that cut shouldn't be there, but it is. I'm not quite sure how to explain this, but if I hadn't watched it bleed or cleaned it myself, I would have said it was an illusion of some sort."

"An illusion?" questioned Adon.

"A poor analogy, perhaps. A childish prank might suit the situation better."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

The health-bringer sighed, "The blood, coming from the cut—it wasn't entirely Chance's. There was, well, some foreign DNA. I've never seen anything like it—by all rights it should be impossible. It's as though his blood--his DNA--had begun to merge with something else but the process was somehow stopped."

There was a long silence before Adon continued, "I think all of us agree that the sooner he wakes up and can explain this to us, the better."

"But the question is, will he wake up?"

"One can only hope. He is the prophesied one, after all."

"Is he, Adon? Do you know for sure?" Jameson questioned.

"Without a doubt…" And with that, the rest of the conversation faded out as Chance found himself falling once more into the warm, welcoming state of oblivion.


End file.
